"Worse luck," Potch muttered, watching the flame he had kindled over the dry chips and sticks.
"You might've done worse," Charley replied, watching his son with a slight, derisive smile. "I might've done worse myself in the way of a son to support me in my old age."
"I'm not going to do that."
Charley laughed. "Aren't you?" he queried. "You might be very glad to—on terms I could suggest. And you're a fine, husky chap to do it, Potch, my lad.... They tell me you've married Rouminof's girl, and she's chucked the singing racket. Rum go, that! She could sing, too.... People I know told me they'd seen her in America in some revue stunt there, and she was just the thing. Went the pace a bit, eh? Oh, well, there's nothing like matrimony to sober a woman down—take the devil out of her."
Potch's resentment surged; but before he could utter it, his father's pleasantries were flipping lightly, cynically.
"By the way, I saw a friend of yours in Sydney couple of months ago. Oh, well, several perhaps. Might have been a year.... Maud! There's a fine woman, Potch. And she told me she was awfully gone on you once. Eh, what?... And now you're a married man. And to think of my becoming a grandfather. Help!"
Potch sprang to his feet, goaded to fury by the jeering, amiable voice.
"Shut up," he yelled, "shut up, or——"
The doorway darkened. Potch saw Charley's face light with an expression of curious satisfaction and triumph. He turned and discovered that Michael was standing in the doorway. Irresolute and flinching, he stood there gazing at Charley, a strange expression of fear and loathing in his eyes.
"You can clear out now, son," Charley remarked, putting an emphasis on the "son" calculated to enrage Potch. "I want to talk to Michael."